


Finding You Again

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where souls share their pasts in dreams and are shared to the world via self-made soul marks, Grantaire yearns to find his friends once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding You Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minyrrds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyrrds/gifts).



> This turned out far more serious than I was expecting, but still has an air of subversiveness to it, I think. I hope you enjoy this alternative look on soul marks.

He had been four when he first remembered. He dreamed of fighting and friends, of being a dark planet revolving around a glowing sun, of people with guns that killed him and everyone, and he heard whispers of his Name. _Grantaire_. He’d woken up crying, and the nightmares continued for weeks.

He’d considered himself one of the lucky ones: his memories were clear as day, linking himself to the past that once was, to his soul memories. He’d had a lot to choose from when it was time to create his soul mark at sixteen, and ended up getting two grape vines entwining a wine red R tattooed on his lower hip. To anyone who understood, it would be a clear symbol of who he once was. For him, it was an excuse to wear low cut pants, cropped shirts, and fishnets every now and again when he felt like taking a chance and exposing his truth to the world.

He’d met Bahorel while clubbing in just that getup, two people in a maze of bodies thrashing to music so loud its bass line felt like a heartbeat, clothing cut to highlight any number of places that soul marks may reside. Her sleeveless, fur-trimmed black leather hoodie seemed to make the tattoo on her forearm stand out even more: a bolt of scarlet Chinese silk and two crossed rifles rampant over a red and blue BLAM! in a yellow scream bubble. They’d seen, recognized, understood, and quickly become best friends over drinks that evening. She was short and stocky this time, but fierce. (She fancied herself a werewolf, said that her soul had always been. She recalled nicknames and lycanthropic jokes from that very first life, and the thought had rung true even though he couldn’t recall how they’d gone.)

Jehan had been more of a triangulation, his personality too similar to that of the poet they both remembered to pass up. He was shy and kept himself guarded, waist-long hair and conservative dress both hiding the poem that danced down his spine: a wistful lyric of young love and Paris that they recognized on sight. Jehan claimed it was the clearest memory he had and one of the few he grasped onto. He wept and embraced them when they Named their old friend.

For a long while, it was just the three of them; perhaps an unlikely trio, but one firmly bonded by a shared, echoed past and a vibrant present. A shadow of missing and brokenness sometimes filled their meetings, but Bahorel would howl when it got too heavy, and he and Jehan would laughingly join in, and then they'd sing loudly or find a new game to try, and the mood would lift once again.

Grantaire visited the clubs at least once a week, frequenting whichever one appealed that day, desperately hoping to fill that void, to find their missing members. Jehan once found a blog depicting delicately painted fans and miniatures amongst posts that autotranslated to things vaguely political and compassionate, leading him to frantically study Chinese in hopes of reaching out to what could be Feuilly. Grantaire wasn't quite sure what Bahorel did (asking usually resulted in laughter and the word "multitudes") but it was clear that she was searching too, and she constantly corrected them on little details as they recounted what all they could in hopes of discovering a new lead.

And then Grantaire found two at once.

It wasn't in the club. Of course it wasn't. It was in a coffee shop at seven in the morning as Grantaire stood in line to obtain some concoction that would simultaneously combat the hangover and insomnia he was currently facing. The line moved forward and he did not, his eyes glued to the couple just sitting and bantering away and he wasn't even sure how he knew but he _knew_ and suddenly the drink didn't seem so high a priority.

It only took a few moments staring for them to notice him too.

The woman with green eyeshadow and a wide smile called him by Name and it felt so natural that he didn't even question how. A whirlwind of moments later found him with a kiss on both cheeks, hugs from both, half a triple low-fat macchiato, and a napkin with a phone number and the name (the Name) Courfeyrac written upon it.

It took him until he was Skyping with the others that evening that he realized that he never saw either of their soul marks, nor the name (nor the Name) of her tall blond companion.

That night, he dreamed of suns, moons and planets; of eclipses and shadows, of dawns and dusks. And in waking, once again he knew.

The Name brought images of a statuesque man. This one wasn't, but then Grantaire didn't fancy himself quite as ugly this time around (though dishevelled and messy he remained). Still, he had a charm and a synergy about him, and it wasn't hard to imagine him bringing the world to light. His heart ached.

It ached again when he mentioned the Name the first time the five were together. It was greeted with a fond, wistful smile, and Grantaire knew that he was in love.

He actually saw Feuilly's tattoo before he saw Courfeyrac's: French turned out to be the common denominator connecting Feuilly's broken English and Jehan's attempts at Chinese. Feuilly's was word-based as well: French sentiments spiraling his wrist in red white and blue, trailing off as a paintbrush depicted their writing. (He'd wanted a soul mark on his palms, he explained, but this would be near impossible with his line of work so he'd opted for the next best thing.)

Courfeyrac's wasn't seen until summer, when her short shorts finally revealed the cat atop a scroll set aflame high on her right thigh. She explained that she owned several dresses with high side slits, but outside of the times that weather or formality deemed it appropriate, she was happy going off of intuition instead.

It was through that intuition that she'd met Cosette and Marius, who were awkwardly dancing around each other once more in a way that she swore was adorable, and even more delicious now that they shared a gender. Neither of their tattoos were visible, and yet she'd known right away. The same had happened with Grantaire, of course, as well as with her best friend. He (Enjolras, Grantaire filled in) had his over his heart.

Enjolras never took his shirt off. At times there were buttons undone, especially when the shirt was worn under a vest or sweater, but never was his chest exposed. Never was that soul mark visible.

He'd see it one day, he resolved. Perhaps by asking, perhaps by sneaking a peek. Perhaps if they all went swimming, though packed schedules ruined most good times for that type of leisure.

He daydreamed of what it might look like. Perhaps a series of bullet holes, or a flag. Perhaps words: a speech or simply _je permets_. Perhaps he couldn't remember much, and it would simply be a barricade, or a halo of light. He often caught himself absently sketching what it could be, just as he'd doodled designs for his own before setting it in ink.

It was after one such foray into doodling, lost in his sketchbook, that he overheard his newest friends in conversation:

"He doesn't realize who you are, you know."

"I've known since he first laid eyes on me."

"And you're okay with that?"

"It's… complicated to answer that."

"Oh? Try me."

"He needs him, probably more than anyone needs me. And for all we've witnessed so far, who knows if he's even alive this time around? It seems more suspicious to me that you haven't seen him in the news or online than it does that we haven't on a streetcorner. He… he should be prominent. And he's not. And if that means that I have to fill in… well, I can take that position for however long it takes."

"You're going to hurt him."

"I'll let him know if it gets too far."

"And if you don't?"

"Well, Enjolras isn't here to correct me, so I suppose you'll have to, Courfeyrac. Just like now. Thanks."

"Any time, Combeferre."

Grantaire wasn't sure what to do anymore.


End file.
